


Inconsequential

by Hummingbird1759



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Flirting, Friendship, Mollcroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hummingbird1759/pseuds/Hummingbird1759
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Mycroft Holmes thought Molly Hooper was not important... and one time when he saw that she was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. St. Bart's, 2010

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do. This story begins a few weeks before Sherlock meets John and ends shortly after Reichenbach.

Mycroft Holmes was not amused. His baby brother had gotten himself into trouble, again, and Mycroft had to chase after him,  _again_. The diplomat ground his teeth in frustration. Sherlock could have finished his chemistry degree and gone into research. He could have followed in Mummy's footsteps and been a professional violinist. He could have followed his father and brother into government work. Instead, he chose to spend his days and nights chasing criminals all over London. Criminals who never had the decency to go quietly, and instead broke his ribs and stabbed him, landing him at St. Bart's.

As the diplomat approached his brother's hospital room, he heard two voices. The door was open roughly two centimeters; Mycroft peered around it for some swift deductions.  _(Female, late twenties to early thirties. Her tone is too familiar for her to be one of his nurses. Not a love interest, either; she fancies him but he's only using her.)_  The elder Holmes gently knocked on the door, startling Sherlock's visitor. She scurried out, muttering something about a busy night downstairs.  _(Carrying a lab coat. Bart's nametag – Molly Hooper. Smells of formaldehyde. Must work in the morgue.)_

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Sherlock was never the sort who had many friends, and after the Victor Trevor debacle, Mycroft made it his business to vet all of Sherlock's associates.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. I don't believe I know your visitor," Mycroft said, nodding towards the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake! Must I notify you every time I come into contact with someone new?"

"Only when they appear to have a romantic interest in you," Mycroft said evenly.

"Which I don't reciprocate, as you know."

"Does she?"

Sherlock shrugged, as if the question meant nothing to him. "She'll work it out."

Mycroft sighed.  _(For her sake, I hope she does.)_ Surveying his brother's bandaged torso, gauze-covered shoulder, black eye, and the IV fluids dripping into his arm, he decided that Molly Hooper's schoolgirl crush and Sherlock's encouragement of it were the least of his concerns.

The diplomat pursed his lips and grumbled, "What I can't work out is why you never leave the heroics to the real police officers."

"Boring!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "This world is not solely here for your amusement, Sherlock! You can't keep risking life and limb just because you're bored!"

Sherlock glared back at his brother but said nothing.

The diplomat scowled. He was in no mood to have this argument with Sherlock again, especially not with the American ambassador waiting.  _(That cowboy is the only person on Earth with an ego larger than Sherlock's.)_ "I must be going, Sherlock. Try not to break any more bones today – you know how much I hate being pulled out of meetings."

"You don't mind as much when the meeting is with the American," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

Ignoring his baby brother's comment  _(not going to give the prat the satisfaction of being right)_ , Mycroft glided out. He relegated Sherlock and his new acquaintance to a far off corner of his Mind Palace and shifted his focus to work.


	2. 221B Baker Street, 2010

Long ago, the Holmes brothers learned to have entire conversations without saying a word. A sentimental person might say that happened because the brothers were extremely close and didn't need words to communicate. The brothers would tell you it happened because their father was a man who couldn't tolerate distractions of any sort and if they were to communicate with each other at all, they had to do so noiselessly. Their mother found their silent discussions sweet but a bit odd, and if John were here, he'd find them positively spooky. However, this discussion isn't for John's ears (eyes?), so Mycroft waited until the ex-soldier was safely in New Zealand before visiting Baker Street.

They'd been at it for fifteen minutes when Sherlock looked at Mycroft the way he used to look at Father when he interrupted them. Mycroft gave Sherlock his " _Oh for God's sake, must you be so juvenile?_ " eyeroll.

Sherlock pursed his lips in the way that said, " _Must you be so dull?_ "

Mycroft was about to resort to verbal communication when he heard a timid knock at the door. He looked at Sherlock quizzically.

"Molly Hooper. I was expecting her to fetch me some materials for my experiments," Sherlock explained. He told Molly to come in, which she did, carrying a stack of specimen boxes so tall that it obscured her face.

"Where do you want these?"

"Kitchen table," Sherlock said, and Molly clumsily manouvred her way over. Mycroft, ever the gentleman, moved to assist her, but Sherlock discouraged him with the " _you don't want embalming fluid on your suit_ " look.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and gave Molly the once-over.  _(New dress – doesn't smell as strongly of formaldehyde as her other clothes. Still trying to get Sherlock's attention, and failing.)_

Nervously, the pathologist said, "Um, Sherlock, I was wondering if you had plans for this weekend…"

Sherlock grinned. "Yes! Coagulation of gastric mucus, post-mortem toenail clippings, and microwaving tongues – without John to object, I can finally make some progress!"

"Right. Um, see you later," Molly muttered, and dashed out.

Mycroft gently shook his head.  _(Foolish girl.)_

"Now, where were we?" Sherlock said.

"I believe I was explaining why certain diplomatic attachés' private lives are none of your business," Mycroft sniffed.

The men returned to their wordless tête-à-tête, and Molly was forgotten.


	3. St. Barts, 2011

Mycroft tried to avoid Bart's unless his brother was a patient there. Over the last year, John had done a good job of keeping Sherlock out of hospital, which meant Mycroft had no reason to visit. That is, until Sherlock ignored his mobile and managed to avoid every CCTV camera in London for an entire week. The elder Holmes was briefly concerned that Sherlock had chosen to be homeless again, but John's text reassured him.

_He's been at Bart's all week working on an experiment. I told him to keep it there since it smells like rotten eggs. – JW_

_Thank you, John. You know how I worry. – M_

When Mycroft reached the lab doorway, he found Sherlock snapping at Molly. He watched for a moment as she withered under his verbal attacks.

"You idiot! You've set the entire project back a week! For God's sake why-"

_(Time to apologise for baby brother, yet again.)_ Clearing his throat, Mycroft interjected, "Sherlock, that's no way to speak to a lady. What would Mummy say?"

Anger flashed in Sherlock's face, and Mycroft met it calmly. " _She'd be disappointed,"_  his expression said. Sherlock glared back defiantly for a moment, but a tilt of the elder brother's head indicated that he wouldn't back down on this one. He wouldn't have anyone believe that he approved of Sherlock's rudeness, even if that person was Molly Hooper.

Sherlock grumbled, "Nevermind, Molly, I'm sure this impediment can be overcome."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should have realized that the hydrogen sulfide produced by the decomposition would precipitate with the iron oxide. I'll, er, leave you and your brother alone for now," Molly said sheepishly, and made her way back to the morgue. "Thank you, Mycroft," she whispered as she walked past him.

_(No makeup, no perfume, but tears in her eyes when she walked out. Cares what he thinks but doesn't want him to know. Hard-to-get does not suit her.)_

Sherlock turned his attention to his brother and spat, "I know you didn't just come here to repeat Mummy's etiquette lessons. What pried you off of your usual tracks? Half-price scones at the Bart's coffee shop?"

The elder Holmes pursed his lips. "No. I have a case for you and John. A man called Von Bork is selling government secrets to various terrorist networks. We need you to track him down at once. It's a matter of national security." Mycroft handed Sherlock the flash drive with the necessary information.

Half indignant and half amused, Sherlock asked, "You can't do it yourself?"

"You know how I feel about  _legwork_." Mycroft grimaced.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "And what makes you so sure I'll take your case?"

"Because I know you've nothing else that interests you, and I've instructed a certain DI not to give you any more cases until you solve this one," Mycroft said with a sharklike expression.

The diplomat said goodbye as the detective stewed. Picking up his mobile, he called his superiors to inform them that his best people were tracking Von Bork. As soon as he hung up, he received yet another call, and then it was on to the next crisis.


	4. Morgue, 2011

There were few things Mycroft Holmes hated more than hospitals, what with their harsh lights, the smell of disinfectant, and all the people with their unmanageable emotions. Morgues multiplied that a hundredfold. But morgue visits were a necessary inconvenience. In the course of his official duties, Mycroft often had to identify bodies – usually the bodies of people the British government needed gone. He'd never dreamed that one of those "high priority targets" would be someone his baby brother fancied.  _(If Sherlock indeed fancies anyone.)_  After Sherlock rang earlier this evening, Mycroft asked his people if they'd found any bodies matching Irene Adler's description, and ten minutes later, he learned that they had.

"The only one that fitted the description. I had her brought here – your home from home," the diplomat explained.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," Sherlock said.

Molly replied, "That's okay. Everyone else was busy with Christmas. The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

She pulled back the sheet, revealing something that looked more like raw beef than a human face. Still, Mycroft recognized the hair and could make out the shape of the nose and chin despite the broken bones.

"That's her, isn't it?"

Sherlock asked to see the rest of the body, and she removed the sheet. Sherlock scanned the body, then turned away.

"That's her."

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said as he turned to go.

_(Why does everyone forget I'm a doctor?)_ The pathologist looked up at the elder Holmes. "Who is she? How did Sherlock recognise her from ... not her face?"

Mycroft knew that anything he said would embroil him in a line of questioning from a woman who needed to grow up and stop, as they say, "fishing in the wrong pond." Tonight was a potential danger night for Sherlock, and he had bigger things to worry about. Instead of answering the pathologist's questions, he merely smiled and walked away.

Molly frowned at the diplomat's retreating form. She wouldn't have minded being dragged into work on Christmas if she'd at least been given a reason, but being told to come in for a "matter of great importance" and then being dismissed out of hand by both Holmeses was too much even for the world's most long-suffering pathologist. It was time to play dirty.

The morgue door had a window just above Molly's head. The little pathologist tiptoed over, and keeping her head below the bottom of the window, she was able to observe the brothers without being seen. She knew they'd discuss the dead woman – this was one area where even a Holmes would be normal – and hopefully answer some of her questions.  _(At minimum, it'd be nice to have a name for the death certificate.)_

What Molly saw and heard surprised her, and it had nothing to do with the dead woman. Molly's father and brother had never gotten on, but at her mother's funeral, the two of them put aside their differences and made an awkward attempt to comfort each other. She saw echoes of that exchange in Sherlock and Mycroft, and the thought made her smile as if she had been let in on a secret. While Mycroft walked down the hall grumbling orders into his mobile, Molly slipped out the rear door, ignored by the testy diplomat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the "caring is not an advantage" scene, the profile view of Sherlock and Mycroft looks like it's from the perspective of someone peeping through a window to spy on the brothers. I like to think that someone is Molly.
> 
> Dialogue is from "A Scandal in Belgravia." Thank you to Ariane DeVere for posting transcripts on her LiveJournal!


	5. Cemetery, June 2012

Normally, one would expect the only immediate family member of the deceased to be mourner-in-chief. But nothing about Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes' relationship had ever been normal. Why start now?

When Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart's, Mycroft did not plan a funeral for him. The  _excuse_  was avoiding media attention. The  _reason_ was that Mycroft would not have been welcome at his brother's funeral.

When Lestrade found out about Mycroft's betrayal, and what Sherlock did in response, he got drunk and spent hours cursing the elder Holmes. CCTV recorded Lestrade's tirade for posterity. Mycroft forced himself to memorize it.

The diplomat took the burning wrath of the DI silently.  _(I deserve it, after all.)_  He had been prepared for Greg's reaction. John Watson's was another matter. John didn't explode; he imploded. He hardly ate, barely spoke, and seldom went out. He looked hollow, a shadow of the man he had been. If Greg was a supernova, John was a black hole.

Mycroft forced himself to watch John as well. On the rare occasions the elder Holmes had ordered a killing, he didn't shy away from the body or the autopsy report. He prided himself on confronting the truth of what "eliminating a target" meant. He wanted the stench to linger in his nostrils and the images burned into his brain. He wanted to remind himself that whatever euphemisms his superiors came up with, there were some options one reserved for the gravest extreme.

Betraying his baby brother had been one such option.

He would face John and Greg someday. He would explain as best he could why he had told Sherlock's life story to a criminal mastermind. He would apologise, though no apology would be enough. But as a diplomat, Mycroft knew that the timing of an apology was as important as the words in the apology, and now was not the time. The wounds were too fresh.

Today, he would face Sherlock  _(what remains of him),_  and he would face him  _(it)_ alone.

Seventy-two hours after Sherlock's jump, Mycroft watched as the casket was lowered into the ground. Most people would have said a few words, but he and Sherlock had never required them before. Why start now?

As Mycroft walked towards his car, he saw a familiar woman kneeling at a grave a few hundred metres away.  _(Molly Hooper? How could she have known where I'd bury Sherlock?)_  Then he remembered something from his initial research on Molly: her father, whom she'd been close to, was buried in this cemetery.  _(Father's Day is tomorrow. It's a mere coincidence.)_

Mycroft glided into his car before the woman could see him. Whatever her reaction to Sherlock's death, clearly she was focused on her father right now and wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. Besides, Molly had only been the silly pathologist who pined for Sherlock. Mycroft had never needed to keep tabs on her before. Why start now?

When the elder Holmes got into the car, he checked his BlackBerry. If he hadn't, he might have seen Molly send a text.

_He just buried "you." I've never seen anyone so sad. – Molly_

_Good. - SH_


	6. Morgue, June 2012

The moment Mycroft Holmes met Molly Hooper, he'd dismissed her and her silly schoolgirl crush on his brother. She was a capable pathologist, to be sure – a place like Bart's would never have employed her if she weren't – but in many other respects, she seemed more like a teenage girl than a thirtyish woman. After a lifetime of dealing with Sherlock, Mycroft had little patience for anyone else who didn't act like a grownup.

It's funny how much can change in the course of a week. First Sherlock was wrongfully declared a fake by the national media and jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. Fourteen hours after Mycroft buried his brother – rather, the decoy body he  _thought_  was his brother – Sherlock appeared at Holmes Manor, alive and just as acerbic as he'd always been.

Once Mycroft got over the initial shock of seeing Sherlock resurrected, he was astonished to find out that the person who had assisted his brother in faking his death (and in so doing, had fooled him) was none other than Molly Hooper. He might have been furious if he weren't so relieved that Sherlock was alive.

The elder Holmes walked Molly to her car that night feeling overwhelmed, but he never forgot that he was a gentleman, and gentlemen say thank you.

Taking Molly's hand, he said, "Doctor Hooper, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done. Sherlock and I have always had a difficult relationship, and I fear that my recent actions have added a new dimension to our troubles. However, my brother is the most important person in my life, and words cannot express how glad I am he is alive."

She smiled up at him and said, "I saw how you were with him last Christmas at the morgue. You two were only acting like you don't care for each other."

_(No one has ever noticed that before.)_  Quietly impressed, Mycroft asked her if she could provide further assistance, and was pleased when she responded in the affirmative. Three days later, with Sherlock safely out of Britain, Mycroft decided to pay Molly a visit. The morgue was quiet and she was absorbed in her work. When he knocked, she jumped and dropped her scalpel.

"Apologies, Molly. I did not intend to startle you."

She murmured, "It's all right. What do you need?"

The posh gentleman said, "I came round to say thank you again, although 'thank you' scarcely seems adequate."

The pathologist blushed. "He needed me. I couldn't say no. Is he, er, all right?" After a brief pause, her eyes flew wide open. "Should we, er, I mean, you don't think anyone's…"

Mycroft half-smiled. "Eavesdropping? No, my people swept for listening devices. The morgue is clean, and as an extra precaution I have a jamming device on my person. And in answer to your first question, he is out of danger."

"Oh. Good." Molly bit her lip.  _(Stupid! Of course Mycroft Holmes thought to get rid of bugs!)_

The elder Holmes leaned on his umbrella. "I hate to ask you to contribute more when you have already gone above and beyond the call of duty, but there are a few loose ends to be tied up. I trust you've already removed Sherlock's experiments from his flat?"

"Yes."

He gave an appreciative nod. "I expected as much. I shall also require you to check on John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson periodically. While I have CCTV cameras trained on them at all times, there is only so much one can learn from video."

"Of course," she said, meeting the diplomat's pale blue eyes.

"Thank you, Molly. I have one further request… do you, by chance, have time for a cup of coffee?"

Molly blinked. "Er… won't Moriarty's people be suspicious?"  _(Is he asking what I think he's asking?)_

"Discretion is indeed required, but I've arranged things such that Moriarty's people will not see me as long as I remain in the morgue."

Molly stared up at him, incredulous. _(Mycroft Holmes wants_ me _to have coffee with him.)_

Mycroft studied her a moment longer.  _(Don't make a fool of yourself, Holmes. Desperation is unbecoming.)_ As he turned to leave, he added,  _"_ But then I can see you're rather busy…"

She blurted, "No!" a bit too loudly, then went bright pink from collar to hairline.  _(God, I wish I could quit doing that!)_ "Er, that is, I'm not too busy... if you're not, I mean…"

Mycroft smiled minutely.  _(And I thought only Sherlock had such an effect on her.)_  "I'm not expected at the office for another hour. I believe you take your coffee with cream and no sugar?"

"Um… yes."  _(How on Earth did he know that?)_

Mycroft sent a text to one of the assistants he'd stationed at the Bart's coffee shop, who arrived with their drinks a few minutes later. The diplomat and the pathologist chatted comfortably while they sipped. The coffee was over-roasted, there was a body on the autopsy table ten feet away, Molly's hair was a mess and Mycroft's assistant was keeping watch in the hall, but somehow, it was all fine.

After they had drained their cups, Mycroft took her hand and said, "I'm afraid duty calls, Molly. I do hope we can do this again."

"I'd like that," she said with a smile.

He gently kissed her hand and sauntered out the rear entrance unseen by cameras or spies. The elder Holmes realized he'd underestimated the pathologist in more ways than one, but the thought made him strangely happy. She'd given him the opportunity to atone for his mistakes, and he suspected this process would be much more enjoyable than atoning for the mistakes he'd made with Sherlock.


End file.
